Y THEIR OWN ADMISSION, you probably could not have found ten men less qualified to run a barbecue restaurant. Then again, you probably could not have found ten men more determined to do it.

The idea of a Jesuit parish helping its parishioners open a barbecue restaurant came to Fr. Matt Ruhl, SJ, pastor of St. Matthew's in north St. Louis, in 1996 during the parish's annual Family Fun Fair.

"I was watching this group of black men barbecuing and socializing, and I saw these kids watching them," Ruhl recalls. "Kids in this neighborhood rarely get to see adult black men working together and having fun. I pointed to an abandoned building across the street and said, ‘Hey Vince, why don't we start a barbecue joint in that old building?' "

Vince is Vincent Wallace, Sr., member of St. Matthew's for more than 40 years. He and his fellow cooks at the Fun Fair had been handling barbecuing chores for the parish for years.

"Don't say it if you don't mean it," Wallace replied to Ruhl.

"The Lord multiplied loaves and fishes," says Ruhl, "so I figured why can't we multiply rib tips and chicken wings?"

"Normally, I get a tingling sensation when I put my foot in my mouth, but this time I didn't," Wallace says. "However, the first time we went into the building, the idea of opening a restaurant seemed impossible. It had been vacant for at least a dozen years, and it wasn't fit for mice, much less men. But the more we talked about it, the more momentum we built and the more feasible the idea became."

The men formed an independent group, The Men of St. Matthew's, Inc. It operates with the blessing of the church but has no financial ties to it. In addition to Wallace, the group includes Frank and Carl Jones, Isom Williams, Edward Bunn-Smith, William Watkins, Gary Doyle, and Jerry Nichols, a crew that had been barbecuing together at church picnics for more than two decades. The group also receives support from several boosters recruited by Ruhl, among them his brother, Kip, who owns a photo lab, and his friend, Glenn Travers, who sells insurance.

"It was a hodgepodge of humanity that got this off the ground," says Ruhl. "People in the neighborhood saw black and white men walking across the street, looking at a derelict building, and they wondered what the heck we were up to. You don't see many white people in this neighborhood to begin with; to see them working together with black people was cause for gossip."

Frank Jones prepares one of the delicious meals for which Fat Matt's is famous.

The men met weekly to figure out how to make the impossible dream a reality. First, the two- story brick building had to be completely renovated. The wiring was shot. The plumbing crumbled at the touch. Everything but the outer walls and the floor had to be gutted.

There was a brief discussion about tearing the building down and erecting a new structure, but the group wanted to preserve the building's character. Yet renovating the building was going to run $180,000, and none of the men had construction experience.

"But we had friends," says Travers. "We knew somebody who knew somebody who could get the work done for free or at cost, and we knew people who felt this was a worthy cause and helped pay for the project."

It was Ruhl's job to help find the generous souls. With his charismatic preaching, Ruhl is often asked to speak at other churches, and this self-described cheerleader never missed an opportunity to mention the project.

"The Catholic community is very close in St. Louis," says Ruhl. "I'd tell them what a great project this was and how it would help the church and boom, they opened their checkbooks." Ruhl even persuaded one of his kindergarten classmates, now a broker, to invest $15,000 in the restaurant project. There was also a $3,000 grant from Catholic Charities in St. Louis, but the rest was funded entirely by parishioners and private benefactors.

Their faith paid off. Within eight months, the dump was transformed into a diner with a take-out window, seating for up to 50, and a patio out back.

HE NEXT STEP for the Men of St. Matthew's was to figure out how to run the place. Except for some stints as cooks and dishwashers, none had experience in managing an eatery. "It was like asking someone who'd never driven a nail to build a house," says Wallace. "We didn't know where to buy meat wholesale or hair nets or anything, so we had to educate ourselves."

They did just that in quick fashion. In August 1997, less than a year after the first meeting, the Men of St. Matthew's opened Fat Matt's, Home of the Real Barbecued Bologna Sandwich.

At first, neighbors and friends were the only customers. But then word began to spread as quickly as smoke from the restaurant's barbecue pit. The alderman came for some tender meat and tangy sauce, so did the district's state representative, and both are regulars now. City workers began traveling into the neighborhood to Fat Matt's for lunch and dinner. Fat Matt's started attracting customers from across the river in Illinois and expanded its hours to accommodate its growing number of customers.

Carl and Frank Jones wait on one of Fat Matt's growing number of customers. With the support of St. Matthew's Church, the restaurant is becoming an agent of change in a neighborhood that needs it.

They are all taken care of by Fat Matt's two full-time employees, head cook Carl Jones and his brother Frank, assistant cook. They have been manning grills together for twenty years, experience that comes in handy now that the restaurant is catering parties.

"The secret's in the sauce," says Carl. "People are always asking me for my barbecue recipe but I won't share it, not even with my brother. My mama taught me to never give up my secret."

Carl and Frank are assisted by members of the Men of St. Matthew's, and other parishioners volunteer regularly to keep up with customers. Retired government employee William Watkins is Fat Matt's daytime manager. Although it is not part of his job description, he sometimes fishes into his own pocket to pay utility and food bills when funds are low.

"I love my church and I want to see it growing," says Watkins. "We have to think of creative ways of surviving, and this restaurant is at least one option."

"We're approaching our first full year of business," says Wallace. While we're not in the black yet, we're not in the red either. I like to say we're in the burgundy."

But the restaurant is not about profit, at least not financial. It is about living up to St. Matthew's mission, written on a billboard on the church's front lawn: Our mission, born at the altar, is to be sent forth into our neighborhood in order to build up the Kingdom of God.

Ruhl says the restaurant has done that and more.

HIS was a dilapidated building," he says as he sits in the dining area sipping coffee, "a sign of despair and neglect. Now it's a sign of hope. We're feeding a lot of people, providing full-time jobs for two, and enjoying one another's company. Black and white people who never would have met are sitting together, sharing a plate of ribs, and taking care of business."

And, Ruhl says, the restaurant is about practicing what he preaches. "If I can't address the day- to-day needs of men and women, then I have no right to stand up in the pulpit and say love one another and everything will be OK."

"If you're unemployed and you live across the street from St. Matthew's and it doesn't do anything but feed your spiritual needs, that doesn't say much for Sunday worship," says Wallace. "You can't say go forth and be well when people in a struggling neighborhood are going home to hungry kids. This restaurant is an extension of the presence of St. Matthew's in the community. It's a place where you can come in out of the cold and see a friendly face. There's no gangsta rap on the jukebox. There's no cussing and swearing. It's a safety zone."

Since Fat Matt's opened a year ago, a beauty supply store, a lawn mower repair shop, and a police substation have opened in other once-abandoned buildings near the church. Residents talk about restoring the neighborhood to its former glory, when it was integrated and everything you needed was within walking distance.

Henry Brown, Calvin Jones, Matt Ruhl, SJ, and Jean Short enjoy fellowship at St. Matthew's Family Fun Fest, where the idea for Fat Matt's was born.

"The neighborhood feels like it's coming alive again," says 74-year old Magnolia Wallace, Vince's mother and one of the volunteers at Fat Matt's. She works Wednesdays cleaning tables and preparing pig snoots for the grill.

"It's good to see the young children coming in here and mixing with the older folks. I like being a part of that."

The restaurant has been a benefit to the church as well as the neighborhood. "People who may have drifted away from St. Matthew's or moved out to the suburbs hear about Fat Matt's through radio ads or word of mouth; they come back and see what's happening in the neighborhood," says Wallace. Many who visit, Ruhl says, decide to stay because they see the whole picture, not just the restaurant. "We keep them because we're all-inclusive, close knit, and fun loving."

Fat Matt's helps the church attract a younger crowd as well. The restaurant encourages the Matt Packers, members of the parish youth group, to run a hot dog stand in front of the restaurant. The young entrepreneurs get to keep the coins, and the bills go back into the restaurant.

The success of Fat Matt's is not the end of the story but just the beginning. As part of a community project, a local Catholic girls' high school will remodel the restaurant's second floor so that it can host catered parties. Ruhl is trying to raise money to renovate a few boarded-up homes in the neighborhood for low-income families; he also plans to rebuild the parish hall and revamp the church's gym to make room for more youth activities.

"Churches in neighborhoods like ours have to get involved in their local economies or church membership is going to slide and church doors will close," emphasizes Ruhl.

"I have a congregation of fighters," he concludes. "They've stayed and fought to keep their church open and their neighborhood alive. Their enthusiasm is infectious; we'll get it all done."

Marie Dilg, a freelance writer and licensed clinical social worker in St. Louis, was formerly a senior editor for National Public Radio's Morning Edition, UPI correspondent, and media specialist for St. Louis University Health Sciences Center.